Paul Verlaine
Paul Verlaine (1844-1896) is probably best known today for his destructive relationship with Arthur Rimbaud. This is a great pity, as he was a very fine poet in his own right. True, he lacked the fierce genius of the younger man, but he was still one of the more interesting poets of the Decadent movement. The turbulent years he spent with Rimbaud, while they nearly destroyed him, produced some of his greatest literature.
It is only in recent years that his most remarkable (read: most purple) works have been published. This is one of my favourites.
A Bad Sleeper
He is a bad sleeper and it is a joy to me
To feel him well when he is the proud prey
And the strong neighbour of the best of sleep
Without false covers – no need – and without awakenings.
So near, so near to me that I believe he inflames me
In some way, with his overwhelming desire, that I feel
In my ravished and trembling body.
If we find ourselves face to face, and if he turns
Close to my side, as lovers are wont to do,
His haunches, deliriously dreamy or not,
Sudden, mutinous, malicious, stubborn, whorish,
In the name-of-God, his cravings, so gentle, will pierce my flesh,
And leave me girdled like a eunuch,
Or if I should turn to him with the wish
To sooth him; or, if peacefully we lie, his quietness,
Brutal and gentle, will suffuse my body in his;
And my spirit, out of happiness, will submerge and overwhelm him,
And prostrate him, infinite in that tack.
Am I happy? Totus in benigno positus!
*
Translated by Francois Pirou
Odilon Redon
Odilon Redon (1840 – 1916) wasn’t really an artist I thought I’d end up liking at first, but his art has definitely grown on me. I also didn’t realise quite how huge his body of work was, because the same images always seem to get reproduced time and again. I now understand why he was one of the leaders of Symbolism. He once said of his work, “My drawings inspire, and are not to be defined. They place us, as does music, in the ambiguous realm of the undetermined.”
The Monster
Fallen Angel Looking At A Cloud
Chalice of Mystery
The Green Death
I still don’t know that he’s a personal favourite, but his work definitely improves on better acquaintance.
Oscar Wilde – Taedium Vitae
One of my favourite Wilde poems, Taedium Vitae
To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear
This paltry age’s gaudy livery,
To let each base hand filch my treasury,
To mesh my soul within a woman’s hair,
And to be mere Fortune’s lackeyed groom, – I swear
I love it not! these things are less to me
Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,
Less than the thistledown of summer air
Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof
Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life
Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof
Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in,
Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife
Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.
*
I just love this poem so much. It’s not often that Wilde gets so explicitly bleak in his writing. He wears it well, and it’s especially poignant considering what happened to him at the hands of the public.
George Frederick Watts
There are very few true Symbolist painters from England – the movement seems to have merged considerably with what the Pre-Raphaelite were doing, making any sort of definition a little hazy. George Frederick Watts (1817-1904), however, is a notable exception. He was definitely a Symbolist, and in my opinion his work has far more in common with continental artists such as Delville and Moreau than it has with Rossetti – himself probably the Pre-Raphaelite who was most inclined towards Symbolism. While Watts was influenced by Rossetti and Aestheticism, his later work is much darker, and bears elements of spiritualism and a preoccupation with death.
Time, Death and Judgement
Love and Death
Hope
The Minotaur
I like how Watts has portrayed the mythical beast with a sense of pathos.
Endymion
I also like how Watts is one of the few Symbolist artists willing to portray images of naked men. I have no problem with female nudity, but it does get a little exclusive in 19th century art in general.
Decadent Films
I’ve had the idea of making a list of Decadent films. These can be movies depicting certain aspects of the movement, or movies that simply sum up the essence of Decadence. I’m going to stick to five films per post, just so that it doesn’t get too overwhelming, but I’m hoping to make it a regular feature. Obviously, if you have any suggestions for films to include in future posts, feel free to let me know.
1. The Scarlet Empress (1934). Director: Josef von Sternberg
I cannot begin to express how much I love this film. It is the story of the rise to power of Catherine the Great of Russia, and stars my imaginary lesbian lover, the wonderful Marlene Dietrich. It tells the story of the young Princess Sophia of Germany, who is taken to Russia to marry the Grand Duke Peter (an excellent performance by Sam Jaffe), heir to the throne, who turns out to be insane. What follows is a struggle for power between the couple, before Sophia, who is now Catherine, uses her sexuality and her cunning to stage a coup, overthrow Peter, and become Empress. This is a wonderful film, depicting the opulent decadence of Imperial Russia – the sets are truly stupendous. Also, look out for the wedding feast scene, which features a skeleton seated at the table, and a cossack soldier happily munching away on a whole pig’s head. Marlene always does a good femme fatale, and this is no exception. She smolders throughout, whether she is playing the young, naive Sophia, or the disillusioned, scheming Catherine. You just can’t take your eyes off her.
2. Salome’s Last Dance (1988). Director: Ken Russell
It’s no secret that I’m a huge Ken Russell fan, and when you combine Ken with Oscar Wilde (Nickolas Grace), you know you’re in for a good time. Oscar Wilde goes to his customary brothel with lover, Bosie (Douglas Hodge), to be surprised by his friends, along with a bevy of prostitutes, put on an impromptu performance of his banned play, Salome. The film achieves something very rare – a play within a movie, where the element of performance is made very obvious. It’s possibly not one I would recommend to Ken Russell virgins, but I love it. Russell, as usual, manages to work some beautiful cinematography on a shoestring budget. He portrays opulence that is seedy yet beautiful at the same time, and parallels the downfall of the legendary temptress, along with the downfall of Wilde himself. Two warnings – firstly, don’t expect any kind of historical accuracy; secondly, there is something about films made in the 80’s where the characters, regardless of time period, can never escape the curse of 80’s hair. Yes, Douglas Hodge, I’m looking at you.
3. Total Eclipse (1995). Director: Agnieszka Holland
Annoyingly, this film hasn’t yet been released on DVD. I can’t understand why, because it’s really very good indeed. It tells the story of the turbulent, destructive relationship between Arthur Rimbaud (a young Leonardo DiCaprio) and Paul Verlaine (David Thewlis). DiCaprio proves what a very fine actor he always was, and makes it even more of a pity that he would soon after be relegated to the pigeonhole of ‘teen dreamboat’. He manages to portray the teenage Rimbaud so well that despite the fact that he is clearly a little shit who gets off on making other people as uncomfortable as humanly possible, he is still somehow vulnerable, and you want to root for him. Thewlis is excellent, as always, and you really feel for poor old Verlaine, hopelessly in love with Rimbaud, knowing that he will never find the happiness there that he wants. This aside, the film is beautifully shot, and has all the debauched parties, poetry recitals, absinthe quaffing and gay sex that you would want. Overall though, it demonstrates very effectively what the true meaning of Decadence is – to fall. And Verlaine and Rimbaud both did it so beautifully.
4. Sunset Boulevard (1950). Director: Billy Wilder
This classic film noir, which gave us the immortal line “All right, Mr Demille, I’m ready for my close up”, is in my mind a Decadent classic as well. Gloria Swanson stars as a faded silent movie actress who takes in an impoverished screenwriter (William Holden), who promises to write a film for her. Of course, he’s out for all he can get, but then so is she. He soon gets sucked into her bizarre world of beauty and grace gone to seed. Naturally, it doesn’t end well. This is a great film, not only because of all the Hollywood in-jokes, but because of how acidly it portrays the destructive nature of fame and fortune.
5. Velvet Goldmine (1998). Director: Todd Haynes
I often think of the 1970’s as being the 20th century’s Decadent movement, and the parallel is clearly not lost on Todd Haynes either. Hic cinematic ode to glam rock is overflowing with Wilde references. The story consists of a newspaper reporter, Arthur (Christian Bale), who is investigating the rise and fall of legendary 70’s pop icon, Brian Slade (Jonathan Rhys Meyers), his marriage to the eccentric Mandy (Toni Collette), and his subsequent affair with fellow musician, Curt Wild (Ewan McGregor). As you would expect, the film is a trippy portrayal of drugs, sexual experimentation and hedonism.
Baudelaire’s banned poems 1
I’ve just realised that back when I started up this blog I promised to discuss Charles Baudelaire in more detail, and I never did. Well, now it’s about time to start making it up to my favourite tortured poet, and what better way to go about it than by discussing his condemned poems, banned from the early editions of Les Fleurs du Mal? This post is going to focus on Lethe, a poem which was in all probability inspired by Baudelaire’s most prolific mistress, Jeanne Duvall, his ‘black Venus’.
Lethe
Come to my heart, you tiger I adore.
You sullen monster, cruel and speechless spirit;
Into the thickness of your heavy mane
I want to plunge my trembling fingers’ grip.
*
I want to hide the throbbing of my head
In your perfume, under those petticoats,
And breathe the musty scent of our old love,
The fading fragrance of the dying rose.
*
I want to sleep! to sleep and not to live!
And in sleep as sweet as death, to dream
Of spreading out my kisses without shame
On your smooth body, bright with copper sheen.
*
If I would swallow down my softened sobs
It must be in your bed’s profound abyss-
Forgetfulness is moistening your breath,
Lethe itself runs smoothly in your kiss.
*
My destiny, from now on my delight,
Is to obey as one who has been sent
To guiltless martyrdom, when all the while
His passion fans the flames of his torment.
*
My lips will suck the cure for bitterness:
Oblivion, nepenthe has its start
In the bewitching teats of those hard breasts,
That never have been harbour of the heart.
Translated by James McGowan
Duval, drawn by Baudelaire
So what do you think of it? I could never quite understand the reasoning behind the banning – as far as I can see, the poems which were condemned are no more ‘corrupting’ than the ones that were left. For example, ‘Litanies of Satan’ was, as far as I’m aware, never banned. And you can’t get much more corrupt than a prayer to Beelzebub himself. I suppose it just goes to show how idiotic these moral police were. More banned Baudelaire is coming soon. Also, I’ve posted a link in my blog roll on the right to a site where you can listen to Baudelaire’s poems being read in the original French, which is well worth checking out.
Nicholas Kalmakoff
Nicholas Kalmakoff (1873-1955) was a Russian born, Parisian based artist, whose work was completely neglected until forty of his paintings were discovered at a flea market in the 1960s, sparking a flame of interest about the mysterious, reclusive artist. He is now considered as one of the leading lights of the Visionary movement, and his paintings have a strong Symbolist influence.
Kalmakoff in Paris, 1928
L. Caruana remarks that “throughout his solitary life, the artist has painted works that reflected his various obsessions with martyrdom, asceticism, decadence, spirituality and sexuality. Executed in a style marked by the Russian art nouveau, his imagery nevertheless transcended this movement, bearing undeniable traces of demented vision, indeed, genius.”
Self Portrait as Louis XIV
Sleeping Town
Evening Light
Salome Sphinx
Self Portrait as Louis XIV
Sleeping Town
Evening Light
Salome Sphinx
Rebel Angel
Swinburne’s poetry
Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909) is considered one of the key British Decadents, although he was perhaps less dedicated to the decadent lifestyle than he professed to be. Oscar Wilde sarcastically observed that Swinburne was “a braggart in matters of vice who had done everything he could to convince his fellow citizens of his homosexuality and bestiality without being in the slightest degree a homosexual or a bestialiser.” The fact remains, however, that he wrote some truly delicious poetry. He’s gone out of fashion a bit in recent years, which is a great pity.
A sketch of Swinburne by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
I love Swinburne’s poetry. He returned several times to the themes of sexual ambiguity and synaesthesia, as well as erotic obsession. He wasn’t afraid of depicting powerful, sexually active women in his poems – just one of the reasons he was thought to be ‘unhealthy’ by the more staid members of Victorian society. Although Victoria herself was supposed to be a fan. One of his most quintessentially decadent poems is, of course, the wonderful Faustine, though it’s rather too long to post here. Another of my favourites is ‘Cleopatra’, which I have copied out below.
Her mouth is fragrant as a vine,
A vine with birds in all its boughs;
Serpent and scarab for a sign
Between the beauty of her brows
And the amorous deep lids divine.
Her great curled hair makes luminous
Her cheeks, her lifted throat and chin.
Shall she not have the hearts of us
To shatter, and the loves therein
To shred between her fingers thus?
Small ruined broken strays of light,
Pearl after pearl she shreds them through
Her long sweet sleepy fingers, white
As any pearl’s heart veined with blue,
And soft as dew on a soft night.
As if the very eyes of love
Shone through her shutting lids, and stole
The slow looks of a snake or dove;
As if her lips absorbed the whole
Of love, her soul the soul thereof.
Lost, all the lordly pearls that were
Wrung from the sea’s heart, from the green
Coasts of the Indian gulf-river;
Lost, all the loves of the world—so keen
Towards this queen for love of her.
You see against her throat the small
Sharp glittering shadows of them shake;
And through her hair the imperial
Curled likeness of the river snake,
Whose bite shall make an end of all.
Through the scales sheathing him like wings,
Through hieroglyphs of gold and gem,
The strong sense of her beauty stings,
Like a keen pulse of love in them,
A running flame through all his rings.
Under those low large lids of hers
She hath the histories of all time;
The fruit of foliage-stricken years;
The old seasons with their heavy chime
That leaves its rhyme in the world’s ears.
She sees the hand of death made bare,
The ravelled riddle of the skies,
The faces faded that were fair,
The mouths made speechless that were wise,
The hollow eyes and dusty hair;
The shape and shadow of mystic things,
Things that fate fashions or forbids;
The staff of time-forgotten Kings
Whose name falls off the Pyramids,
Their coffin-lids and grave-clothings;
Dank dregs, the scum of pool or clod,
God-spawn of lizard-footed clans,
And those dog-headed hulks that trod
Swart necks of the old Egyptians,
Raw draughts of man’s beginning God;
The poised hawk, quivering ere he smote,
With plume-like gems on breast and back;
The asps and water-worms afloat
Between the rush-flowers moist and slack;
The cat’s warm black bright rising throat.
The purple days of drouth expand
Like a scroll opened out again;
The molten heaven drier than sand,
The hot red heaven without rain,
Sheds iron pain on the empty land.
All Egypt aches in the sun’s sight;
The lips of men are harsh for drouth,
The fierce air leaves their cheeks burnt white,
Charred by the bitter blowing south,
Whose dusty mouth is sharp to bite.
All this she dreams of, and her eyes
Are wrought after the sense hereof.
There is no heart in her for sighs;
The face of her is more than love—
A name above the Ptolemies.
Her great grave beauty covers her
As that sleek spoil beneath her feet
Clothed once the anointed soothsayer;
The hallowing is gone forth from it
Now, made unmeet for priests to wear.
She treads on gods and god-like things,
On fate and fear and life and death,
On hate that cleaves and love that clings,
All that is brought forth of man’s breath
And perisheth with what it brings.
She holds her future close, her lips
Hold fast the face of things to be;
Actium, and sound of war that dips
Down the blown valleys of the sea,
Far sails that flee, and storms of ships;
The laughing red sweet mouth of wine
At ending of life’s festival;
That spice of cerecloths, and the fine
White bitter dust funereal
Sprinkled on all things for a sign;
His face, who was and was not he,
In whom, alive, her life abode;
The end, when she gained heart to see
Those ways of death wherein she trod,
Goddess by god, with Antony.
Franz Von Bayros
Franz von Bayros (1866-1924) is a fairly recent discovery of mine. He was an Austrian Decadent, and I like to think of him as the spiritual love child of Aubrey Beardsley and the Marquis de Sade. His erotic illustrations caused a furore – the court case concerning his ‘Tales from the Dressing Table’ portfolio made his name in artistic circles, and he was persecuted his whole life for his controversial artwork, meaning that he was constantly moving from country to country. It’s hardly surprising – the morally fixated echelons of nineteenth-century society were hardly going to welcome von Bayros’s decadent take on eroticism, often featuring lesbianism, bestiality and sadomasochism. Nonetheless, his artistic skill cannot be denied, and his illustrations are witty and delightful, attention paid to the minutest of details.
Pentamerone
Ex-libris of Sweet Snail
Camillo Boito
It is strange that the Italian, Camillo Boito (1836-1914), is best known today for his writing, because he originally trained as an artist, and mainly devoted his life to teaching architecture. But then when you read his stories, perhaps it isn’t so surprising. Both he, and his musician brother Arrigo, were associated with the Italian version of the Decadent movement, the Scapigliatura, whose proponents were ‘anti the bourgeoisie, the Church, the Establishment, and tradition, and pro individualism, hedonism, sexual freedom, drunkenness and general degeneracy’ (Roderick Conway Morris). While Arrigo fully identified with the movement, Camillo was always slightly distanced from it. Nevertheless, his short stories and novellas all betray a strong identification with Decadence. Most of them can be found collected in Senso and Other Stories, published by Dedalus Press.
Camillo Boito
Senso
The first, and most famous, story in the collection is the first-hand account of the beautiful and ruthless Contessa Livia. Compelled by her extreme vanity and pride, she stops at nothing to avenge herself on her faithless lover, a handsome but stupid soldier – even if it means the death of five separate people. Her remorseless account of these events, and her satisfaction in bringing them about, classify Livia as an iconic femme fatale, and it is hardly surprising that Luchino Visconti was so enchanted with her that he chose to turn the story into a film.
A Body
A wonderfully macabre tale which draws parallels between life and death, art and science, love and pragmatism. It also takes a sly dig at artists who elevate the emulation of a beloved in their work as being somehow superiour and free of exploitation. It is the story of a young man who is intent on depicting the beauty of his lovely and vivacious mistress in his paintings, and how he battles for her with a scientist, who believes that the woman should be his, in death, so that he can examine the anatomy of beauty.
Christmas Eve
This tale of sexual perversion is the account of a young man driven to despair by the death of his saintly sister, with whom he was passionately in love. He believes he sees her image in a coarse young shop girl he meets, and he succeeds in seducing her. Naturally, the adventure ends in disgrace and horror.
Vade Retro, Satana
The futility of morality is a frequent theme in Decadent writing. Here, the good actions of a pious young priest are rendered meaningless in a society that only thinks of money and pleasure.
The Grey Blotch
A psychological tale in which a man is tormented by a grey blotch in his vision which manifests itself after he rejects a young girl whom he meets in the country. He seduced her, only to be repulsed by her voracious sexuality. He learns that he has driven her into madness, and she eventually dies. The themes of corruption permeate the whole story, as the man wrestles with his conscience, in the form of the grey blotch, as he attempts to argue that his needs are above the family’s that he has ruined.
Buddha’s Collar
A comical tale (and yes, the Decadents did have a sense of humour) about a foolish young man who takes up with a beautiful prostitute, unaware of the fact that she is blatantly cheating him. When he is bitten by her, he is possessed with the idea that he has somehow contracted rabies, and desperately tries to save himself.
